


Once We Rise

by solitariusvirtus



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Multi
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-07-28
Updated: 2018-09-12
Packaged: 2019-06-17 14:56:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 4
Words: 16,154
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15463905
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/solitariusvirtus/pseuds/solitariusvirtus
Summary: The Seven Kingdoms draw on the last of their strength in an attempt to regain past glory and in the midst of King Aerys' court the winds of change blow, moving all inexorably upon paths incredibly strange. In these times of peril and chance, Rickard Stark decides to make the greatest gamble of his life. And thus his daughter sails to foreign shores upon order of her King.AU! A marriage such as hers, Lyanna Stark learns, is never only between husband and wife.





	1. i.

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Gwynn](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=Gwynn).



 

 

 

 

 

 

Weddings were generally regarded as an opportunity for merrymaking. Merrymaking constituted of emptying the hosts’ larder and drinking copious amounts of wine. Since both conditions were beyond the show of a doubt met by the boisterous courtiers lost in revelry before her, Lyanna supposed she could consider the wedding feast a great success along with being a sound opportunity indeed. For the guests, that was.

Brides had never been expected to regard the day with aught other than trepidation. The sick feeling rooted firmly in the pit of her stomach stabbed at the poor balance she had thus far managed to maintain. There were several factors which kept young brides in the grip of such harsh a gaoler. The first of them revolved around the ever constrained knowledge a maiden had of the world. Sheltered and pampered she stepped from her home into the arms of a proper stranger, from whose hand she knew not whether to expect kindness or pain.

Lyanna glanced at her good-father. He had been imbibing since afore the sun’s setting. A man of substantial hard-heartedness, he had taken one long look at her upon that fateful day of the tourney and had come to a decision. She then looked to her past, to her father, a man only too eager to please. Ready to place her in the hands of an unknown fate just as long as benefits cropped up. She took a sip of her own wine, the drink spoilt by her own fears and doubts. It was not supposed to taste so bitter.

“Your Grace,” a drunken Robert Baratheon stumbled forth, his winning grin firmly in place in spite of the decided awkwardness of his stride, “pray grace your humble admirers with a dance.” He snickered at his own wit. Behind him a less inebriated, or might be not at all, Stannis stood rigid, a frown affixed to his unimpressive visage.

She considered refusing. Might be dumping the contents of her cup over the elder sibling to cool his ardour. And yet she could not. Bound by more than mere expectations, she rose from her seat, gingerly stroking over the folds of her skirts to steady her nerves. The heavy braids of her hair so skilfully put together moved against her with every step. The weight of it a reminder of the true burden placed upon her shoulders. Straightening herself she forced a smile upon her lips, reaching out to press her acceptance into Robert’s hand. Speaking might well result in her uttering the complete opposite.

“Steady now,” Stannis murmured, barely audible above the din even at close distance. Lyanna nodded, thinking with some relief that whatever her blunders, she would not be long faced with them.

‘Twas with Robert that she danced first. It seemed that purpose gave him some steadiness, though it lent him no true grace. The ordeal was not too long, but neither was it short enough for her to consider it a mercy. Added to which Robert was the sort of man who required conversation to keep him entertained.

“What think you, my lady, will Tyrosh be pleasing to you?” Lyanna was more worried over whether her husband would be pleasant. Tyrosh she could well deal with, but the absence of any knowledge upon her spouse troubled her.

“I do not doubt it is a handsome place, though I doubt it compared to our realm.” Robert gripped her by the wait in preparation and she sucked in a breath as he lifted her. She’d danced a similar dance with her good-brother, Edmure. Whereas she’d been laughing with the boy over some jest, she found no joy in Robert’s skill. He placed her back down. “Have you any knowledge to offer upon the matter?”

“No more than any other soul in these halls.” His father had fought in the War of the Ninepenny Kings; a pity their famed fury had no won them the day. “My grandfather may well have been struck by blade from those parts beside foul Maelys’ deathly blow.” But then his loss had not been as great that of King Jaehearys.

“Such is war,” she replied easily, moving in step with him.

“Not that this peace is all that pleasing.” To that she could say little. The realm had been struck time and again after the war. King Jaehearys had died unexpectedly, leaving his son, the current ruler, with debts towards the Iron Bank, no dragons, no heir and most importantly no functioning army. But even so Aerys the second of his name had persevered. Until he was cut at the knees, as it were.

“We all do the best we can,” Lyanna answered after a too-long silence, glad to hear the last strains of the song. At the very least Stannis Baratheon would not seek to her words. In fact, when she was presented before him so he too may have his dance, the young man bowed and exerted himself no further, suggesting that they take a turn about the hall instead. “An idea of some merit,” she allowed, placing her hand upon his arm. There were yet some lords and ladies she’d not exchanged much in the way of pleasantries with and that had to be remedied. Thus Robert’s brother squired her about until she finally reached the end of the hall.

It was then that she was approached by her aged, ailing former wetnurse. Her old Nan, whose presence she had insisted upon, had somehow found her way from her own table to her. “A young bride” she spoke in her wheezing voice, “ought to have a true smile upon her lips.” Lyanna found herself swiftly in possession of a childhood favourite of hers, smooth carved wood resting between her fingers. She smiled involuntarily, at the tiny bird. A true smile. For a mere moment.

“You needn’t have made the journey,” she nevertheless addressed the woman, “I was just about to return to you.” She hadn’t planned any such thing in truth. All that she wanted to do was have the whole of it done with. In any event, how could a bride without a husband smile cheerfully as though all were well. What for, even?

Nan gave a small snort, might be indicating disbelief. For her part, Lyanna knew she would not work out a more convincing display, which meant she was to leave matters be and return to those of her guests who seemed only too pleased to have a few moments of her time. Though she did notice there were no requests coming her way. Having never considered herself particularly adept a player of the game, as her father called all court interaction, she could safely say she understood too little of the arrangements being made about her. What she was not, however, was completely blind to these instances.

Generally, it was considered an acceptable move to pester those in power or those particularly close to those in power when in need of small, or great, favours. In turn these men and women cursed with an overabundance of lickspittles and simpering souls of clearly average intellectual power would request at a later date a return on their investment, as it were. Daughter of the Master of Laws, Lyanna had long since accustomed herself to the practice and was more or less used to the necessity of that particular evil. Her companions were either children of other men sitting the King’s Small council or children of nobles seeking favours. To see their number dwindling and their words turn increasingly to cautious acknowledgement was tantamount to being defeated on the field of battle after having been a reigning champion. She sighed to herself, doing her best to ignore the presence of Stannis with the genuine hope that boredom might drive him away as it had his brother.

Before she could see such a feat realised, however, her attention was grabbed by yet another guest walking towards her. Biting back a full-blown frown at the approach of a very beautiful Cersei Lannister, Lyanna accepted the girl’s congratulatory buss with a fair bit more grace than she felt inclined to exhibit. “While this is a highly irregular affair,” she spoke in her usual slightly condescending manner, “I daresay you’ve the best of both worlds this night. A wedded woman with none of the fuss of bedding.” But strangely enough with all the fuss of expedient travel.

“How very thoughtful of you to point out these blessings,” Lyanna managed with barely contained dryness. Not that the Lord Hand’s daughter noticed; or might be she simply did not care. Cersei embraced her encouragingly, bending ever so slightly.

“Be a good girl and might be I shall convince father to allow your return in a few decades.” The only thing she would be, Lyanna thought with no small measure of grim amusement, was a very proud mother at the quickest opportunity if it went according to her own father’s plan. She supposed, though, that such a victory would surely make her position that much more complicated. Still, it would work wonders as far as needling Cersei went.

Lyanna returned the embrace, impeding Cersei’s escape. “And might be upon my return I shall attend your own wedding,” she taunted back. The Lion’s daughter stiffened, her anger channelled in a gasp. Drawing away, Lyanna smiled sweetly. “You are too kind, as ever, Lady Cersei.”

“You overstep, as always,” the other replied in turn. “The both of us know where you are headed.” Just as Cersei was about to clarify the matter to her beyond all doubt, she was interrupted by a beaming Lady Ashara.

If there was one person truly pleased about Lyanna’s wedding than that had to be Lady Ashara Dayne. Whether her joy sprang from the opportunity she’d offered the woman to join her in Tyrosh or not, Lyanna did not intent to explore. “Lady Cersei, I thought I heard the Queen requesting your presence,” the Dornishwoman announced in her lilting tone. As soon as the lioness had gone, the smile upon her face flattened. “Apologies, my lady, I was momentarily distracted.”

“You were precisely in time,” Lyanna assured. How had she been able to tell what went on when she’d hardly been close enough to hear anything of the exchange.

“You ought not to pay them any attention, my lady; time will doubtlessly prove them wrong.” Lyanna paused midstride as the words reached her. She glanced at the Lady Ashara with undisguised curiosity. “’Tis bound to be so; the gods will surely reward your kindness.”

“Flattered as I am to have your good opinion, I confess to do not see this kindness the gods must reward.” Certainly, she could be kind when it so suited her, but the one with such a virtue within the small pack of wolves settled in King’s Landing had to be Ned.

“Not many a lady would have risked stepping in the midst of a brawl as you had.” She must have been one of the onlookers. Yet another reason for her to curse the precipitation with which she’d acted upon that occasion. “And certainly not many would have defended another with such vehemence.”

“I was simply doing my duty.” She kept her voice devoid of emotion to the best of her abilities. “There is nothing more to it.”

“His Majesty seemed to think there was.” At the mention of the man, Lyanna could not help but allow herself a quick glance towards the long table. He was still drinking. “And Ser Eddard as well thought it exceedingly brave of you.”

“He is my brother; surely, he, of all people, would think so.” The look upon the woman’s face suggested otherwise. But then Ashara Dayne had only spoken to Ned a small number of times. She could not be faulted for not knowing him all that well.

“You did choose me for your companion, my lady. Surely that you shan’t deny was an act of kindness.” The both of them made for a small balcony which would afford them both some fresh air and a small bit of privacy. “Not many ladies would have.”

In truth Lyanna would not have picked her of all the available maidens if not for her brother’s obvious preference. The way Ned had been making calf eyes at the poor girl, Lyanna was surprised father hadn’t arranged the wedding already. She was more than aware that Ashara Dayne’s great beauty had attracted her more than her fair share of ire and jealousy. Many were the ladies who could not stand having such competition. She also knew that being newly arrived at court she’d not yet had times to find her legs. That in turn made her an easy target. Another fault for which she was blamed was the supposed virtues or lack thereof one expected a Dornishwoman to hold.

But none of that had figured in Lyanna’s reasoning. “You have not been long at court. Time is needed to forge friendships.” Ned would travel with her to Tyrosh and, father assured her, stay awhile until she grew comfortable in her new home. She had simply seen in that an opportunity to please her kin and she’d taken in, not giving a moment’s thought to Lady Ashara’s plight. “For all you know, I do you great disservice taking you away from this opportunity.”

Lady Ashara frowned, looking exceedingly beautiful even at that point. “The opportunity to mocked and gossiped about as though I’d committed some great sin? I am Dornish, that is true, but when have I given anyone any indication I were aught less than a lady?”

“They don’t need proof.” The poor girl; although older than Lyanna and one supposed wiser, she still looked so forlorn to hear the words spoken. “Have you considered marriage? That ought to quell the worst of it.” After all, Lyanna was a wild Northerner with a queer penchant for riding prior to her marriage. Speaking a few words had elevated her to the status of perfectly proper lady wife.

The lady blushed profusely. “I have given the matter some thought.” That was just as well; she supposed finding out more about it could only serve her in the long run.

“Pray tell me, have you anyone in mind?” The blush deepened impossibly. She hoped it was not some silliness about grand passions that she was about to hear. Lyanna encouraged a response out of her companion for the foreseeable future.

“I fear offending, my lady, but I shall nevertheless be honest and trust in your kindness.” She did not bother correcting her a second time. “I’ve been considering writing to my brother so he intervene by my lord, Master of Laws.” Considering that Brandon was wedded and Benjen was still little more than a child, Lyanna took whatever joy she could in the realisation that Lady Ashara would need no convincing to favour Ned with her affection.

“Ned is a second son. Are you certain you wouldn’t rather be the mistress of your own keep?” The lady shook her head. “You are of age, are you not?”

“Indeed I am. Seven-and-ten years in all, my lady.” That was a perfectly unobjectionable age to wed at. Lyanna gave a brief nod, wondering if she ought to press any further. “I do not mean to be impertinent,” her companion spoke before she might, “but would my lady consider advising your lord father in favour of the match?”

“My lord father does not listen to my advice.” Not when it came to such matters, although to her knowledge Ned had yet to attract father’s attention as far as matrimony was concerned. “I will urge him, nonetheless, to agree to it should your brother, was it, write him.”

“I knew you were kind,” the young woman exclaimed, taking Lyanna’s hand in her own with such feeling that she could not help being touched at the sincere display.

“I am simply being reasonable.” House Dayne boasted an old line. They were well-regarded and offered advantages. With how isolated the North had been thus far, it would be a most decent match. Father would doubtlessly agree with her. She’d need to speak to Ned. Much as she enjoyed Lady Ashara’s idea of writing to her own brother, it would be far more pleasing for her, she reckoned, to have the offer come from the wolves. “Speaking of being reasonable, may I in any way convince your brother to speak to me of my husband?”

Lady Ashara bit down into her lower lip. “I fear Arthur rarely speaks of him even to me. I know but what I have heard.” And she, clever girl that she was, did not trust rumours. “I could make an attempt, my lady, but I cannot guarantee much success.”

“An attempt would be much appreciated.” If he were anything like his father, Lyanna fully expected she’d need more than a few smiles to win over his indulgence. And she did so want to have that, lest she live out the rest of her days in the same sorry state of the Queen. There had been no additional marks of violence marring the woman’s flesh, but what remained of previous attentions bestowed upon her was still uncomfortably visible.

Her father had been quick to explain the odd behaviour of their ruler had to do with his captivity during the so called Defiance of Duskendale. He’d not elaborated any further but to assure her she needn’t expect any such displays within her own marriage. Though how he knew as much she couldn’t say. Albeit, she suppose, it could well be the Spider’s little birds had brought him such crumbs of knowledge.

Firm agreement met her unspoken request and Lyanna did her best not to show any relief in the face of it. Whatever the answer she’d receive, she would still have to be the man’s true wife. At least until there was a child. And might be even beyond a first.

It was in the hands of the gods, she told herself, signalling to Lady Ashara that they ought to make their return afore the King send his knights after them.

 

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ha, I did it. another one to add to the collection. Further explanation will be given in the upcoming chapters.


	2. ii.

 

 

 

 

 

 

The bridal bed had been decorated with a slew of dried rosemary sprigs and fragrant crushed lavender flowers. The scent wafted through the chamber, overpowering her senses. Lyanna looked about, noting with some interest that the cover had been turned down. Was she to expect someone after all? The door creaked behind her and for a brief moment her heart squeezed painfully tight. She turned.

The weaving form of the Queen stood there, bathed in the weak glow of lit torches. She entered, her bearing regal, her eyes searching. “I thought you might wish some words upon what your duty as a bride entails.” If ever there was a woman to give such, the Queen was a poor choice indeed. Forcing herself to accept the offer, Lyanna nodded her head ever so gently.

Rhaella Targaryen produced a thoughtful sound before inviting her to sit on the bed. Lyanna seated herself upon the edge, watching as the other woman made herself comfortable in a chair, opposite her. Watching with as much attention as Lyanna herself exerted, the King’s wife prevailed upon her erstwhile instinct and she found herself mirroring the woman’s actions, reaching out for her hand as well. Rhaella’s clasp was warm and soft, reminiscent of childhood days spent at the knee of whoever had watched her. “You must be anxious.” There was a strange sort of amused kindness in that voice. A shiver trailed down Lyanna’s spine.

“I cannot deny that much.” Honesty was a precious thing. Rare, more so than gems; she did not know why she had done as much for a woman whom she did not expect to influence the rest of her existence. “There is something about changing one’s circumstances.”

“So there is.” The agreement brushed against her just as the thumb played upon her skin. “Let us proceed then and hope the Mother in her mercy shall make it easy for us.” The gods ever so rarely were merciful. “Have you then any knowledge of what goes on between men and wife?”

Not from any credible source. Lyanna did not suppose the chatter of servant girls mattered much. “But very little. I know they must lie together to produce offspring.” Ordinarily, she would not have given even that much away. ‘Twas not her task to make matters easier for the Queen of the realm. But it seemed a most appropriate response for the other woman launched into a rather terse explanation of the mechanics. It was that she was precisely unkind, but simply blunt.

“You needn’t fear it, though. Were it a truly horrible ordeal none of us should ever quite manage more than one child, if that.” Privately she agreed. Though her face remained impassive, as the surface of the lake might, she considered the very real possibility there might be some comfort for her yet beyond holding a babe to her breast. She had, Lyanna confessed, thought little enough of the efforts to beget a child. “And one child is never quite enough.”

Lyanna ignored the deeper meaning the words so clearly held for woman. “Indeed. ‘Tis a risky thing to have but one heir.” The Queen tensed, the rounded curves of her shoulders rising sharply. Briefly, shame pressed Lyanna’s conscience. It must have been horrible to lose as many babes as she had with the knowledge that her eldest was forever, or long enough to make no matter, without her grasp.

“It is true a man wants many sons to carry on his name.” Rhaella took a deep breath and for a moment Lyanna thought she would say more, but instead a manner of curtain fell behind her eyes and she steered away from the topic of babes. “Now then, remember that any sting you feel is not a reflection of what you are to expect with every coupling. If there are any questions you would put to me,” she trailed off, indicating with a wave of the hand that she would answer only too happily.

“This is highly irregular, Your Majesty,” Lyanna began, pausing to clear her throat, more due to discomfort than dryness. “One does, naturally, wed in accordance to the expectations set before them; but to take anyone to spouse sight unseen raises a good deal of questions. Is there no light Your Majesty may shed upon the nature of your son?”

“Last I saw him, he was no higher than his sire’s knee,” came the measured response. What sort of mother knew so little about her own son? “He does not keep a correspondence, you see, and I’ve only heard but rarely from other sources.” In other words, she had little to tell her and would fain leave the conversation or elsewise pick another topic to converse upon. “The only thing that I may tell you, is that he has the look of a Targaryen about him.”

Bother his looks, Lyanna thought to herself; they were not going to be a comfort to her when he decided she was deserving of his wrath. Lyanna pursed her lips and attempted to produce a thoughtful sound. She feared all that came out was an unintelligible garble. “That is fortunate. A pleasing mien sets one’s heart at ease.” Why did she out of all the maidens in the land have to wed that blighted man? Such considerations, even if true, did not in the least bring comfort. She pasted a smile upon her face. “Your Majesty has been very kind. I will keep the words in mind.”

“Then I shall leave you to your rest. Have no fear, no one will disturb you.” Again she patted her hand in an almost find gesture. “We’ve left Ser Whent at your door.” She was pleased enough to hear as much. Oswell Whent put one’s mind at ease, even if he did point out the bleaker aspects in existence. He did so with a ready smile and a quip. She found she could not dislike that in him. “Sleep well, good-daughter.”

And she was left alone for the second time, to the crackling fire and the sounds small insects made at night. Lyanna undid the side-lacing of her kyrtle, listening to those very songs of nature. Her fingers did not tremble, though her movements were clumsy and slow on account of exhaustion. She’d not rested well in some time. The prospect of a marriage such as her own along with the knowledge she would be cast adrift in seas she did not know troubled her, plaguing her even in her sleep. The garment parted with a gentle sound and she tugged it further off. The kyrtle was allowed respite along the back of a chair.

All souls had known she would remain a bride for some time yet. That had not stopped anyone from insisting she dress accordingly, with a thin chemise and little besides, to bed down with the night of her wedding. Lyanna glanced at the flames dancing to and fro, from side to side. If only she could conjure some manner of company. Alas, she merely found her way beneath covers, tugging at the pins in her hair, setting the whole of it free from entrapment. It fell about her shoulders in gentle waves of half-remembered braids and she could not help but smile at the sight of it. It took little time to make one such braid for herself, sighing with some longing at the sight of it. It stood a symbol of her girlhood and untroubled life. Might be keeping such bits and pieces about her would be enough.

Without further ado, she laid her head against the pillows and drew the covers up to her shoulders. The chill of night melted into welcoming warmth and she closed her eyes, determined that she would only dream of pleasing things. About Winterfell and her brothers, she told herself, about father and how he’d been so patient teaching her to take aim with her bow and arrows, about her horse, a spirited, mischievous beast than more often than not tried to throw her out of the saddle. She would dream, as well, of being fearless. Dreams brought comfort. Slowly, she sank into the blackness of sleep, her mind losing all semblance of coherence. Lyanna was aware of one brief moment of surging gladness before she lost all knowledge.

She woke with a start, from what she was certain had been a wicked night terror. Beads of sweat clung to her forehead and her back. Her heart was galloping, threatening to break free of the prison of her ribs and fly away. She was aware only of her fear. It dwindles slowly down, until something else forced itself to her attention.

She was being held. Not quite held, but supported. Large hands kept hold of her shoulders, not allowing her to fall. Lyanna expelled a harsh breath. “What is this?” she demanded of the knight doing his best to keep her upright.

“His Majesty would see you,” the man replied simply. Something in his eyes, a twinkle gave her pause. “I thought Your Grace might wish to put on something of more substance.” He did not look down, but even so Lyanna blushed fiercely. Patting her shoulder with one hand, Ser Whent gave her his strength for only a moment longer, before he straightened himself to full height and nodded simply at her.

Thus forewarned, Lyanna waited until he’d left her bedchamber then set about to pulling her kyrtle back on and fumbling with the lacing. Why would the man wish to see her now? Why not wait for the morning? Frustrated with the inconvenience she yanked on the laces, wincing when the material drew about her tightly. Contrite, she loosened them some.

Her preparations went no further however, as the door to her chamber opened yet again. Lyanna supposed she ought to grow used to that. It was not the King, however, but a servant girl. She’d come laden with offerings of food and drink. And just as quick as she’d brought then, she went away, leaving her to her own thoughts.        

The King has a somewhat stranger way of putting in an appearance. Lyanna very nearly jumped out of her skin when the wall trembled and shifted, uncovering a generous opening. And in stepped the man, accompanied by the ever-present Spider. She drew tense at the sight and had to concentrate all her effort upon not stepping back. Instead, she followed protocol. “Your Majesty, my lord.” The greeting was a thin one, delivered in an uncertain voice. It was, however, the best she could muster.

“Lady, be at ease,” her good-father spoke, his voice a strange jagged thing. Has it been smooth, she might have found it pleasant. As it was, every single word pierced her skin and drew blood. “I simply wish to discuss a few matters with you.”

And it could not have waited until a decent hour? Lyanna blinked away her surprise and curtsied once more in acquiescence. The King, she observed took a look at the wine, a gleam in his eyes. Knowing he would not drink until the brew had been tasted, she poured wine into three cups and downed a mouthful. “Whatever matters Your Majesty wishes to discuss with me, I shall listen.” She placed the cup a little ways away from the other two.

“Well met. Your sire taught you well.” Her father had indeed, Lyanna thought to herself, as her guests sat down and she was invited to do the same. “Albeit, there are some things he had no knowledge of.” Matters that she would find out about, it seemed. Lyanna struggled to keep her composure. “There is a little something I would have you do for me.” She waited, But it seemed he too waited, to hear her take some manner of vow.

It was unwise. Nevertheless, she swore, “I will carry it through, Your Majesty; whatever it is you command.” She thought she saw relief play upon his features. He gestured towards the Spider and the man approached, producing a small bound package. It was missives. She recognised as much straight away.

Reaching out, she took hold of the bundle gingerly. “I shan’t feed you any Essosi coin, lady. If you were caught with those in hand, it could turn bad for you. They are for my son’s eyes. I could, of course, ask that companions of his,” he paused to give a snort, “but it strikes me as more appropriate that I hand this task over to you.”

Men were not the only ones who schemed. Lyanna was well aware of the fact that a good deal of went on in King’s Landing in terms of plots involved the gentler sex I equal measure. She had kept herself well away from any such activity. Her decision was made a moment later. What she could not decide upon, however, was if she ought to present some of her thoughts to the man. “His Grace has been gone for a long time, Your Majesty.”

“Indeed. I have thought of that as well.” The Spider pulled out another object. This time it was a pretty bauble. A ring, to be precise. Lyanna needed no explanation and in spite of the chill gripping about her heart with surprising force, she recognised the merit of such caution. “Give him some time, of course, before you proceed with any of it.”

She nodded dutifully as though she were not being asked to take a man’s life. It occurred to her she’d yet to consider her use should her husband die. “If it should come to pass, Your Majesty?” She would be killed, poisoned herself, might be. But words of assurance could not go amiss, even when she knew them to be lies. In a way, it was gratifying to know herself privy to something her father had no notion of. Was that enough to lay her life down for, though?

“You are a clever girl,” the King jeered almost unkindly. “You’ll figure something out.”Her mind scrambled for some manner of lifeline. Something that would stay the executioner’s hand. It was not even a certain thing the Crown Prince would refuse. Lyanna so desperately wished she were clever indeed. The only possibility which came to mind further complicated the situation. She forced her lips into a serene smile and nodded her head absently. The King left his seat, picking up one of the cups. He did not watch him drink. Instead her eyes fell upon the Spider.

Lord Varys kept a pleasant disposition, asking if he might approach her. The King paid them no mind, made busy with wine as he was. She nodded, in no doubt they’d planned it between the two of them. But if the Spider wished to give one insight, there was no cause for complaint. He sidled closer to her, soft, perfumed hands taking hold of her own. Echoing her own thoughts, he murmured, “We’ve no reason to believe His Grace does not hold the needs of the realm above all else. Yet he has long been gone. When a limb falls asleep, one must force it back into actions regardless of the pins and needles resulting. But if the limb should not wake, one must cut if off.”

He spoke to her in a paternal sort of way, the manner in which she imagined a patient father might go about explaining to a stubborn child what must be done. “You need not concern yourself, my lord. I am perfectly aware of my duty.” For some odd reason, her smile became genuine. The man was not concerned for her, she knew, but the blatant display touched her.      

It was at times so difficult to believe that such a mien held a deceptive, unreliable and cruel person behind it. Still and all, she needn’t acknowledge as much if she did not wish it and it was infinitely more comfortable to shy away from the monster. “Duty is a most admirable reason, my lady, for one’s actions.” Why did the words sound as though he were mocking her? Lyanna expected he had some reason. Lord Varys was older, doubtlessly more experienced and rather intimidating when it suited him. And the King had chosen him for a reason. Just as she had been selected for a specific purpose. “Might be further reason can be added, however. If Your Grace finds it adequate. Timing, I have found, makes all the difference.”

Lyanna would never suspect a man of the King of having even the mildest awareness of anything beyond the narrow bubble of their own particular interests. She was thus somewhat taken aback when the Spider withdrew yet another gift from his sleeve. A wooden bird. It was a slender sort of creature, with an intricately carved plumage. A fairer version of her own little plumb winged beast. This one had been painted as well, careful silver strokes along the wings were joined by blue and green dots. The chest burned a deep red colour. It was a pretty creature, dainty and precious.

Unexpectedly, her eyes welled, moisture gathering at the corners. “It is a lovely gift.” The Spider nodded towards the man behind it all.

The King, holding his goblet firm in hand, gave her a long, penetrating sort of stare. “If one must endure captivity, one ought at least to have some manner of company.” He’d been held against his will, Lyanna recalled in that moment. More than that, he had endured. She wondered if that experience brought fresh worry for his son; if it had been festering within him for all those long years. The question remained unasked. Lyanna clutched the gift to her chest. The King raised his cup and with a cutting smile toasted her.

Unable to guess at his game, Lyanna accepted that as well, though not quite as calmly as she had managed up until that point. She did not like being surprised. The Spider retreated a few steps away from her at a glance from his master. It was might be the strangest wedding night any bride had ever endured.

 

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 'Sup! So here's the second chapter, guys. Hope you enjoyed it and figured out the entire plan. :)


	3. iii.

 

 

 

 

 

 

The gale grabbed tight hold of her heavy skirts and tugged, whipping the cloth to and fro. It ran its fingers through her hair, pulling strands over her face. Lyanna shoved back against the disobedient capillary adornment and glowered in frustration. Of all the times to be inclement, the weather would choose such days upon which she travelled. Of course, she quite neglected to think about all those other times the weather had been perfectly pleasant. Ned held her hand in his, holding onto the railing with nary a trouble.

“I take it you find this tiresome,” he spoke gently, pushing her hand away and using his own to tame the strands into more acceptable positions. For whatever reason, his touch proved soothing enough that her impossible nemesis lifted its siege, her torment coming to an end. “We shall reach shore soon enough, have no fear.” She clamped her lips shut least she give away her fears. Her brother, though, knew her well enough to offer one of his kind smiles and tug her closer. She went without protest, accepting the boundaries his arm set about her. “I have done some reading on Tyrosh.”

“Have you? Nothing too heavy, I hope,” she teased, knowing that Ned would rather be reading a good adventure. She smiled up at him to show she was not in earnest with her words. Not that there had been any need, for he merely tsked at her, calling out her bit of impertinence in mock fury. Lyanna laughed, grabbing hold of his hand even tighter when their vessel leaned to the side. She wished she were better equipped to deal with rocking of the ship and not fall down every time it tipped.

“’Tis a good enough place to see all manner of interesting sights.” Ned delved into a description of bright hair colours, to which Lyanna could only laugh, half-hoping her betrothed sported some ridiculous hue she could amuse herself at. Ned continued, unaware, or unwilling to declare himself aware, of her reaction. “Doubtlessly it will prove a worthy adventure.”

Her amusement shifted to mellow worry. “I do believe that must be true. But Ned, I cannot help worrying.” She’d not even managed to get a word out of Arthur Dayne. He’d refused to speak about it to his own sister, even. “If he were a man as all men, why would they not tell me as much?” Lyanna wasn’t precisely imagining some manner of monstrosity. In fact she was more or less certain the whole ordeal was survivable, except that she found surviving was not quite enough for her. She wanted something more. Predictably, she could do little other than worry in the absence of any pertinent knowledge.

He did not sigh. He did not even cast an exasperated glance upon her. Ned let go for the railing, apparently adept at keeping himself from falling. And just as good at keeping her from landing in an inelegant sprawl at his feet. Which he managed by holding her to him as he spoke. Lyanna listened with great attention. “You are my sister. Remember that. Always.”    

“You promise?” She felt his chest move with every breath filling the gentle silence between them. Lyanna counted silently, waiting. Waiting was the hardest and most unpleasant of tasks. Her mind would not quiet, would not listen to reason nor give her a moment’s peace.

“You have my word.” And Ned’s word was his bond. Her brother pushed her easily away. He tipped her head slightly backwards so she was looking up into his face. “I do not pretend to understand what you feel, but I know you. I know your heart. It is a brave heart. A kind one as well. And if he cannot cherish that, I will cut his out.” Eddard was rarely moved to an effusive demonstration. It spoke of his dedication as a brother that he would go so against his nature for her. Though she did not doubt the truth of his words. A thrill shot up her spine and she grinned wide at him.

“I would not require that you go so far.” Her thoughts turned to her ring and the King’s unexpected kindness. “Might be simply that you convey us both to Winterfell if I should not enjoy married life.” She would not be the first bride to leave a Targaryen Prince. Although, she supposed he would demand at the very least a child of her before that.

The swaying of the vessel curbed some of its roughness, though the winds continued to pull at anyone brave enough to bide on the deck. “He is a man, Lyanna; in spite of his title and his circumstances; he is but a man.” A shuddering breath broke past her lips. The assurance she had been waiting for. “You mustn’t create monsters in your head.”

Her brother could be unaccountably wise from time to time. She thanked him prettily for his efforts and moved closer to the railing, grabbing hold with both hands. “I believe you may allow me a moment or two on my own.” His doubtful stare produced some amusement. “Go on; my sea legs are steady enough that I shan’t sway overboard.”

She caught, from the corner of her eye, sight of Lady Ashara approaching, her step steady. Her brother walked slightly behind her, his eyes upon the sea. What he found there to admire she could not figure out. The sea was an ill-tempered termagant, a poor comfort for any man’s soul and certainly no balm for one’s fears.

“My lady,” her companion spoke, holding out what looked to be a dry woollen cloak. Unlike the plain one she’d been wearing for some time, Ashara brought a cloak which might well rival fine garb. She did not know whether to thank the young woman or order her away. She settled for taking the offering with a smile, knowing it was not for her benefit that she approached. Her faithful brother, seeming to recall some prior understanding, gazed away from the sea long enough to capture Lyanna’s stare.

It was a most arresting gaze, flickering between violet and blue. It put her in the mind of vicious bruises. She felt her lips stretch in response, never one to show just how much she’d been affected. “Have you any notion of navigating on sea?” she questioned as she looked at the man, rising one hand to undo her cloak. It fell with nary a care from her. Ned caught it. “Do not worry, Lady Ashara. I daresay we needn’t yet put on such garb.” She nodded towards her companion. “Might be you would be so kind as to return both cloaks to our cabin. Ned, do accompany her.”

Being as her rank stood above their, she was shown proper deference, though her brother had a care to narrow his eyes at her in silent warning. She returned her hand to the railing and gripped tight, aware that Ashara’s brother came to stand at her side. Opposite where Ned had stood. “You will catch your death, Your Grace.”

“Unlikely. I yet have a great many matters to attend to.” He had no response for that. But he did not avoid her gaze, in fact, he seemed to be quite intent on staring into her very soul. Lyanna might have told him she did not appreciate the attempt but did not quite manage as much. “In any event, it would be bad form to abandon my husband for the other world before I’ve as much as had a glimpse of his face.”

“You must be curious, my lady.” She bit her lip to keep from asking what had given her away. “So you must be.” He waited, as though for her to prod. Lyanna so wished she had the wherewithal but only managed a sound of mild agreement. “Have you much knowledge of Alequo Adarys’ court?”

“As much as any other, I imagine, from the kingdoms. I daresay you must know a fair deal more.” Interesting. He was willing to speak to her of her husbands’ captor, but not of her husband.

He blinked slowly, as tough he was trying to make sense of her words. “It is a marked difference from our own court and even more so from our customs. But then a merchant upstart cannot be expected to embody any of the grace and natural capacity for ruling a nobleman might.”

Alequo Adarys had started as a humble merchant, building his empire one brick at a time. He’d won a fortune, then a nobleman’s daughter for bride and in the end had been appointed ruler of Tyrosh during the War of the Ninepenny Kings. She recited as much to the man’s face, if only to claim some small knowledge for her own. Arthur Dayne laughed. “Just as long as Your Grace does not expect pretty manners of the man.” He went on to explain to her a little about those she might be expected to keep company with.

“Do you then suppose His Grace might have been to some degree influenced by this lack of breeding all around him?” She had a vision of a glowering and scowling man with nary a gentle manner to his expression, but surely he could not be. Arthur Dayne seemed a fine enough fellow, if a bit taciturn. He certainly did not have an upstart’s way about him.

“Is one ever wholly untouched by what goes on about him?” It was an academic question. Lyanna recognised it as soon as it had been put to her and knew not what to do with herself when her answer was immediate. The man gave an easy smile, as though he managed to read her mind. “Is it not enough that the man has elevated your position?”

 “I suppose it ought to be.” Though that made Prince Rhaegar neither kind, nor reliable, she supposed it did confer him some usefulness. “But a position does not keep one warm.”

 “On the contrary, lady,” Ashara’s brother disagreed lightly. “It is precisely one’s position that keeps one warm.” She pursed her lips, about to contradict him. “It is no easy thing, to act as surety for actions one has no control over. Without position, you can imagine how much more difficult the feat would prove.” A comfort then. Lyanna chewed on her lower lip. She bit back her ill-thought out argument and waited patiently. “Position is about the only thing you may count upon from here on out, Lady Lyanna.”

He meant every word. She could tell by the way his brow furrowed slightly. It was an odd sort of expression, a twist of earnestness which was both unexpected and irritating. “What protection is that against an enemy I have no knowledge of?” she demanded. If he refused to give her even a sliver of a glimpse, she’d no need to be reasonable.

At that he chuckled. “I cannot say you’ve naught to fear. The Father would strike me down for a liar.” How could he jest with her on such a matter? If she were capable, she’d have skewered him. But then Lyanna was not about to put herself in danger. Arthur Dayne looked as though he might lift her one-handed and throw her overboard with ease, and with his peculiar nature, might well enjoy it as well. She glowered nonetheless, knowing a man’s ego would not be so easily bruised by some glaring. “Give His Grace one of those glares, lady, and he won’t as much as look twice.” Much as the thought appealed, she forced her face into more neutral mould.

“He is easily cowed then, is he?” she questioned, unblinking, in hopes of creating enough discomfort for truth to break through.

“You will have no answers out of me on such matters, lady. Best you turn your thoughts to other matters.” She leaned slightly back, peering down at her through slightly narrowed eyes.

“The state of my kyrtle, might be?” she snapped. The sodden hems of her garb dragged against the rough wood of the floors as though in indignant answer. To be entirely honest the kyrtle she was perfectly serviceable in spite of the inclement weather. It was a pity truly that it slapped heavily against the wool of her stockings. It was a greater pity she could not properly appreciate the clothing as much as they deserved. “Do you take pleasure in being difficult?”

“Very much so.” It felt rather like having an argument with Benjen. And while she could not say she found the man any less of an annoyance than she did her brother when in high dudgeon, she could very well envision the many ways in which he was a different creature altogether. “What else is there to life?”

Lyanna restrained herself at the very last moment. He would simply lead her on a merry chase and give her naught for her efforts. Best she simply wait out the reminder of the journey. She would find out all she wished too soon enough in any event. With nary a word more to the man, Lyanna turned on her heel and fled his presence, making for the cabin in which she bedded down with Lady Ashara for company.        

The young woman was sitting upon their cot, knees drawn to her chest. “Whatever is the matter?” Lyanna questioned without thinking, settling down by her side, thoughtlessly allowing the dampness to seep into the mattress.

Turning soulful eyes upon her, the Dornishwoman nodded down to her garb. “You ought to change out of those wet things, my lady. You’ll catch your death of cold.” Not relishing the possibility of a cough, Lyanna drew back up to her feet and began tugging at the lacing with a decided lack of patience. Ashara sniffled. “I was hoping to be spared more than a couple of words, now that there are not so very many souls around.” Instinctively, Lyanna knew she spoke of Ned and wondered how her brother had managed to squander his opportunity. “Is it possible, do you think, that he does not enjoy my presence?”

“Ned?” She ought to have masked the incredulity in her voice, but it was such a silly question to ask to begin with. Anyone with eyes could tell what her brother felt about Ashara’s presence. And the woman herself could not be so vexingly clueless. “You’ve met Brandon, have you not?” she questioned, seeming to recall the two had shared a dance at the tourney. Her companion nodded. “For some odd reason my brother is convinced his worth is somewhat less than the heir’s and has thus decided no maiden could possibly consider him.” She was also certain that years in the company of Robert Baratheon had not done him any favours either.

“How then may I convince him of the opposite?” Ashara sighed. “This is all so very–“ She stopped short seemingly at a loss. Lyanna supplied no suitable words for she hadn’t the slightest intention of involving herself any further than she had. She’d spoken to her father, planting in his mind the idea of a union between Eddard and the Lady Ashara. In his own time, he would see to it.

“I expect you needn’t my advice on that,” she murmured softly, fighting the damp shift clinging to her with uncommon obstinacy. In the end he prevailed upon the garment and peeled it away. Ashara had moved to one of the chests and drew out fresh, and most importantly dry, garb. She helped Lyanna into it.

“One hardly enjoys being kept on tenterhooks.” With that she could agree. However, short of telling the young woman her brother would likely fall to his knees in worship if she so much as indicated a partiality towards him, Lyanna could but further distress the lady.

“Alas it seems neither of us is to find any satisfaction from present male company.” Sighing heavily, she allowed the other to tie a girdle about her. “It has been my observation that men will only every so often act with good sense. The rest of the time they prefer less sensible modes of expressing themselves if they can help it.”

“My brother has been difficult again, has he?” There was no use in denying as much. “He can be that. I did attempt to reason with him, but he simply told me you should have all the knowledge you desire in due time. I thought might be speaking to him at length would draw him out. But I see I was mistaken.” It had been on purpose then. It was ever so nice of her to have made the attempt in the first place.

“’Tis no fault of yours,” Lyanna assured the Dornishwoman, finding the wherewithal to smile. “There now, pray think of it no longer. I promise I am only annoyed with your brother.” The young woman gave a weak nod and sat back down. Lyanna joined her shortly, wondering if she ought to lie down for a spell. Sleep did wonders for one’s bouts of irritation. And the time would pass ever so much faster when she was unconscious of it.

“Shall I leave you, my lady?” It would be unconscionable to send her poor companion off to gallivant on the deck. Lyanna shook her head vehemently, instead insisting she rest as well.

“Ordeals are so much easier to deal with when one is well-rested.” Aside from which, she’d brought little enough to amuse herself with and Lady Ashara had long since finished embroidering the borders of what Lyanna assumed to be a handkerchief.

Having no objections whatsoever to offer, Ashara did as she was bade, somehow managing to fall asleep before Lyanna. For herself, she allowed the rocking of the sip to lull her into slumber, wondering whether she would be looking back on the whole fretting she’d thus far done in the near future and indeed count herself very foolish. A girl would dream, she told herself, breathing in and out evenly to encourage sleep’s descent.     

 

 

 

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

It wasn’t a wheelhouse proper. Rather it resembled an unnecessarily large litter. The manpower required to squire her about seemed a tad too large as well. Lyanna could not see well enough through the dark curtains protecting her from a blazing sun, but before she’d been asked to ascend and take her seat, she had managed to count at least six of those wretched souls. Wheelhouses were superior. They did not needlessly pester humans but used the power of horses. Naturally it made travel much faster and pleasant.

The litter swayed dangerously and she gripped at the lattice through the curtain, wincing as she heard the crack of a whip. To add insult to injury, these were servants labouring for pay but rather slaves finding their encouragement only in the cutting and ungentle strokes of their master’s flog. She shuddered, unable to contemplate the matter overlong. It was barbaric to strip away another’s dignity to the point of considering them an object. Still and all, she told herself with a measure of relief, she could count on her breeding to keep her from descending into these vile ways; doubtlessly the gods set such before her as some manner of test. Lyanna breathed a sigh of relief when the wooden platform beneath her straightened. She even dared draw the small curtain slightly to the side, peering out through the fine lattice. 

That earned her a curious enough sight. She had known the people of Tyrosh were ever so keen on using bright and daring dyes upon their hair and Lyanna admired a few of the specimens she saw about. They were in some manner of square and a fountain dominated it. She looked upon the carved stone, wondering what manner of monster that was it depicted. A soft sigh left her lips and she allowed the curtain to fall into place.

Concentrating on breathing, Lyanna closed her eyes for a few moments, wishing they’d given her a horse instead of a litter. Humans walked so very slowly and the delay was tugging at her frayed nerves in a most disturbing manner. Custom or nay, her mare would have ensured she reached her husband unharmed.

It did not help that oppressive heat wrapped itself tightly about her. She wore one of her summer kyrtles as well, the garb meant to keep the heat away. Lyanna opened her eyes, looking down at her lap where her girdle gathered in an uneven pile. It had not tangled for she’d been careful. Lyanna reached for one of the ornaments hanging from it, tracing the surface. Her nail scarped against the intricate lines of a mystifying pattern. She liked Tyrosh not one bit and she had a long time stretching out ahead of her, all of it meant to be spent in this strange land. Whatever would she have done if the King hadn’t allowed Ned to come with her? It was a question best not contemplated. Banishing the dark thought from her mind she did her best to latch onto the tiny sliver of excitement forming in spite of her misgivings.

They pressed on. Lyanna wondered if she might have the freedom to ride about once she had settled all matters with her lord husband. It was a tempting enough prospect, only that she half feared the heat would do her in. She’d not expected hailstorms and snow, but at least a smidgeon of a breeze would have been welcome. King’s Landing with its balmy weather had smothered her in the first turns of her stay, yet she’d grown used to it in the end. It would be the same for Tyrosh. Lyanna repeated as much to herself, hoping to strengthen her belief in the assessment.

The litter lurched once more and she gritted her teeth with no small measure of annoyance but dared utter no complaints. It had never been her custom to be foolish. Should she indicate displeasure, the slaves carrying her about would pay, she did not doubt; and she wanted no one lashed on her account. At least not without proper fault attached. She rolled her shoulders bracing against another straightening of her litter. It came swiftly enough and she breathed out her relief when the pace picked up. Wheelhouses truly were better. She might have spoken to her brother within one, or at least kept company with Lady Ashara. Instead she was very much alone.

Her thoughts could not contemplate such a state any further for she felt the wood tremble beneath her and then a great shudder nearly sent her on her side. Thankfully, she kept a precarious balance, glancing towards the entrance with a sudden desire to berate anyone who happened through.

The great curtain keeping her shielded flew out of sight and the face of Arthur Dayne peered in. She glowered at him. “We have reached our destination,” he said, keeping his voice smooth in spite of the satisfied smile on his face.

Holding one hand out, he gave silent invitation for her to move. Lyanna did so, grasping his hand with more force than strictly necessary. It was a relief to be without at long last. The feeling was short-lived as a wizened man approached, sketching her a shallow bow. “You must be the Lady Lyanna.” He had a pleasant voice, melodious.

“You’ve the advantage of me then, for I know not who you are,” she answered, taking a moment to wonder at the bright blue of his hair.

The man chuckled, “I am but a humble maester not worth Your Grace’s recognition.” That explained his use of her tongue. Lyanna smiled instinctively. The man beckoned over another person, in High Valyrian enunciating her own position and purpose.

This second one gave a deeper bow and reached out for her hand which she gave willing enough. He pressed it with his before returning it to her side. “Your Prince is a fortunate man,” he commented in heavily accented High Valyrian. The fortunate man, however, was nowhere to be seen. The man chuckled. “Or rather he shall feel very much fortunate when he finally catches a glimpse of you, my lady.”

Lyanna had no reply to offer to that. To admit the Prince was fortunate reeked of conceit. To deny it suggested undue bashfulness. She settled for a small smile which grew as Ned finally arrived at her side and she managed to make the introduction in an only slightly-trembling voice. Her knowledge of High Valyrian was that much better in writing. Nevertheless she somehow managed satisfactorily and allowed the man to take her arm. She listened as the man made his own position known, and she recalled that Arthur had made mention of him.

He did not look nearly as imposing as Ashara’s brother had suggested. Albeit that might well have to do with the greens and golds twining in his hair rather than anything else. Truly, men ought not to adopt such outlandish features unless they wished to be regarded as odd. For one short moment she wondered if the Prince had gone on to bow to these customs. At the very least she would have aught to laugh about.

“Was the journey very tiring?” the green haired man questioned softly, a smile lifting the corners of his mouth. It looked neither predatory not understanding, but simply perfunctory. “Or is my lady simply reluctant to make conversation with us?”

Blushing at the implied admonishment, she cleared her throat and cocked her head to the side, doing her best impression of surprise, “I truly apologise if I gave the impression of reluctance. You see, in the Kingdoms one is not supposed to tire men gallant enough to provide escort with nonsense. Although, I suppose that I am rather tired as well.”

Whether he saw through her attempt or not, Lyanna had the satisfaction of seeing fleeting surprise play upon his face before he chuckled understandingly. “And my lady, of course, follows such rules.” She sensed the slight mockery of his words and firmed her own smile in response. She was yet too new and powerless to repay his impertinence. Although there would come a day when she’d teach him how one spoke to a lady of good breeding.

The maester, having somehow supplanted Ned on her other side, jumped to her defence. “Lady Lyanna Stark is of an old line. Doubtlessly she was raised with impeccable manners.” And then some. Lyanna only hoped she’d not have cause to bare her teeth too blatantly during her stay. It would be such a pity to have her secrets bared before too long. “Tell me, my lady,” he switched to the Common Tongue, she presumed for her benefit, “have you any notion of what it is that awaits you at the King Alequo’s court?”

“A husband, I expect.” He would have spoken words to instil fright in her, her mind whispered. “At the very least I hope it is a husband that awaits me.” Lyanna gave the man a sideways glance. “Unless you’ve a wish to tell me otherwise, good maester.”

“Heavens, not I. I would not dare speak such untruths.” But there were some who would? Lyanna pondered that for a few moments, returning her gaze ahead of her as they entered a large building with a low ceiling.

They were led into a sumptuously decorated hall, where a throne rested upon a raised dais. A man sat in it. Unlike the Iron Throne, Alequo Adarys had made his with comfort in mind. Lyanna supposed ‘twas the coin that encouraged such a choice. As for the man himself, he was a tall fellow, on in years and thick of body. His hair lacked any colouring other than the one time had given him. It was a full head of hair though, so she suspected no complaints could be made.

Arthur Dayne stepped before them, speaking in the corrupted dialect of Tyrosh rather than using High Valyrian. Lyanna understood some of it, but much was lost on her. She liked it not one bit, but their host seemed pleased enough to climb down the steps of his throne, stalking towards her with a sure step.

“So you are the bride the Westron King sends for his son.” Cold eyes assessed her, openly speculative. Lyanna had the urge to flinch, to hide behind her brother and protest the marked attention. He spoke her tongue with an accent, but remained easy enough to comprehend. “Be welcome in my home.” He leaned in, cupping her face. His grip was firm and steady, as though he worked the reins of a skittish mare. The King pressed her a brief kiss before drawing away so as to speak once more. “And even more so at my table.” Glancing over his shoulder, he added, “Come now, young Prince, and meet your bride.”

From behind the curtains at the back of the throne another man emerged. His fine fair features marked him a Targaryen. His resemblance to his father was unmistakable. Lyanna’s eyes widened and the knot residing in her stomach coiled all the tighter. The man who would be her husband stood taller than the merchant King, which she supposed was a feat in itself; he remained thinner yet, making her wonder as to his strength. He wore no weapon upon his belt, not even a small knife and dressed in the fashion of these strange people about them.

He approached, remaining yet a step away from her before their host retreated, allowing the distance between them to fade. Lyanna craned her neck, gazing up at him even as her legs bent in the required obeisance. “Greetings, my lady,” he spoke, maintaining a straight posture as he reached for her, straightening hers as well. “Be welcome.”

“Your Grace,” she murmured. His given name she could not use, not in company, thus dared not ask if he were in truth Rhaegar of House Targaryen and struck by the sight of him she could not quite form any of the usual pleasantries to reward him with. What a poor mummery it was turning out to be.

But he seemed pleased enough with that, his eyes going to the rest of the company she’d brought along and Lyanna thankfully managed to make both her brother and her companions known, along with Ser Whent whose excellent humour shone a light of mirth in his eyes.   

 

 

 

 

 

 


	4. iv.

 

 

 

 

 

 

He was restless. Rhaegar had been going over the same lines of an old song with the same mute frustration with which a mule might shoulder the burden its masters put upon it. He understood, to his horror, not even a tenth of what his eyes glossed over, nor found he any manner of comfort within the tale and the many noble deeds expounded upon. He shifted uncomfortably, raising his gaze from the weathered pages just in time to catch Petra’s entrance.

“And not a lick of progress has been made.” The soft muttering of the aged woman had him putting the writings away. “Your Grace, might be we ought to prepare ourselves,” she continued, bustling about with her gait as fine as ever.

He had no wish to partake in the morning meal. In fact, he did not wish to see the face of his gaoler on this day, a day which could very well be the day of his wedding. Arthur had written that the journey was progressing along splendidly, which mean they were making good time. Having received no word to the contrary, he expected their arrival any day. Which brought to the forefront of his mind the notion that he would have to face the woman they’d made his bride, armed with little other than pride.

His friend had been tight-lipped about the girl, uncommonly so. He’d simply written that she was all that was appropriate in a bride, which meant very little indeed. “I could decline,” he expressed, answering Petra’s earlier words. “I would not be good company, I fear.”

“You will be perfectly pleasant company,” the woman replied mulishly, giving him a hard look. He sighed and nodded. “For all you know, your bride might be awaiting in the hall.” Like him, the servant woman had found many of her thoughts straying to his yet absent bride. She had wondered, in his presence, more than once, softly, whether the girl might prefer one servant or another to aid her, whether she found the heat tolerable and would be comfortable in her surroundings and so on. Since he knew not any of the answers, Rhaegar had simply kept quiet.

“There would have been riders,” he spoke after a moment, leaving the songs as they were. The day had dawned uncommonly hot even for Tyrosh. His bride was of the North, so suggested her house. In spite of that Arthur assured him she’d been at her father’s side, at court, for many years. He hoped that would be enough sharpening of wits for her, for he feared that any court was rife with intrigue and Alequo’s more so than others.

Seeing himself without and down the hallway, he made for the great hall where most of the inhabitants had gathered. The master of the keep was seated at a long table, his arm around his young queen, laughing at aught which had amused him. Since it was his habit to come and go, freely, he was simply received and allowed to see to his own entertainments for a few moments.

He sat at his customary place, ignoring Oberyn at his side who was busily engaged in what he thought was the seduction of frowning girl he’d not seen much of. He suspected she might have been one of the Queen’s new companions. Before he might find out as much, the Queen herself managed to leave her husband’s side and seated herself beside him.

Habit and good breeding forced his attention to her. Bedecked in fine gauzy gold cloth and arrayed with heavy, jewelled pieces about her throat and wrists, she had set out to make an impression. Pitch black eyes regarded him with great interest, her person shifting closer. “I heard there was a raven in the wee hours of the night,” she said, her voice the same as ever, soft and deep. “It seems your bride shall be arriving soon enough.” He’d not been told about that, but then Rhaegar hadn’t expected to be. Alequo would say only as much as he willed. “I confess I am eager to take her measure, this girl they’ve sent for you.”

Unable to help himself, Rhaegar tensed. “I am certain she’s been chosen with care,” he answered nevertheless. Marra laughed, the sound ringing false. They’d not been pleased when word had come that he would have a bride. He’d wondered then whether Alequo was aware his Queen’s dissatisfaction had more to do with her own plans being thwarted rather than his.

“But I wonder still.” She’d painted her lips, as she always did, a deep vermilion. “I cannot be expected not to.” In faith, she couldn’t. For his own part Rhaegar still wished she wasn’t interested at all, nonetheless. He might breathe easier. “It has all been so very hasty.”

That much he could not deny. There had been little enough warning of it. He did not mind, precisely, no more than he ought to, Rhaegar told himself. While he should have very much enjoyed some prior knowledge, he understood the need for caution. What he worried over was the bride herself. Marra interrupted his thoughts yet again. “I shall be kind to her nonetheless. It must be rather frightening for the poor girl to have been sent away from all she ever knew and held dear.” Another smile crossed her lips, this one softer, couched in mystery. “Men sometimes do not understand.”

He did not let himself be impressed. Having long known Marra and her wiles, Rhaegar merely made a show of gratitude he did not feel and allowed her to slip away, intending to do the same before long. She’d soured his appetite even further with her words. It would do him little good to continue wondering over the mystifying Lyanna Stark. He could not afford to place her upon any pedestals before he himself had her measure. Drat Arthur for keeping his thoughts tightly bound away. He sensed there was some reason for it but could not at the moment discern it beyond the vague notion that he ought to make up his own mind.

And so, Rhaegar looked for an opportunity to depart the hall with all its noise and bustle and found it soon enough. Oberyn followed, leaving the woman he’d been toying with. They were not what one might call close. The ties that bound them were more to do with a home both had been forced to leave behind, albeit for different reasons. “Is there some reason for which you hurry so?” the younger questioned, eyeing him with an ever-present suspicion.

“Not particularly.” His trust in the man had never been particularly strong. The better they knew one another, the more it diminished. But he was still of his own homeland and thus Rhaegar was inclined to allow some clemency. “I was simply growing tired of the company.”

Unlike him, who was bound to Aleqio’s court and could no more escape than a hare could it trap, the Dornishman always had the choice to leave. He supposed he resented that enough for some bitterness to well in his chest at the confusion in the man’s face. He wanted, not for a first, for time to gallop forth and for his bride to be before him at long last. To see something of the woman whom his friend described in vague terms, something of a woman who could anchor him more firmly to the land of his ancestors.

“I shall return to the company,” the Dornish Prince chuckled, “and leave you to your thoughts.” No less than he desired; Rhaegar inclined his head and doggedly made for his own chambers, even knowing there was little there for him.

Petra greeted his arrival with a small disapproving sound. “Why was I not told about the raven?” She frowned, her armful of cloth deposited upon a chair. “I thought we’d agreed on more care, not less, in such instances.”

“If the maester did not think it of great import to mention the raven then it must not have been,” she argued gently, her voice maintaining a calm tenor. While he could not agree with that, he had to acknowledge the tack worked wonderfully well. He gave her a searching look nevertheless and the answering sigh signalled his triumph. “’Twas but assurance that they’d arrived safely to shore.”

“Assurance I would have been only too glad to hear for myself.” To that the servant woman had no words. She merely continued her activities, careful not to disturb him. As for himself, Rhaegar retreated to a window seat, pleased to contemplate the matter of his future further. He had to trust that had aught been clearly wrong with the woman, Arthur would have said as much. He would have applied fair and ample warning so as for him to devise a plan. He trusted however that the lack of opinion meant he could detect no such flaws in her circumstances or person. That much ought to have heartened him.      

Circumstances being as they were, he did not expect himself summoned by the merchant monarch sometime later, with word that riders approached. He was, nonetheless, invited into the great hall, or rather into a small alcove behind the throne, from where he would have the advantage over the newly arrived guests.

It did not take long before Arthur strode in, his step firm and long. After him come others. He barely registered the words being spoken, nonetheless he was alerted to the presence of the long awaited bride. And there she was, as Arthur stepped aside. She wore no veil, nor any discernible colouring to alter her appearance.

He considered her, gaze sliding from top to bottom. The most arresting trait from a distance was the height, or lack thereof. She was easily dwarfed by merchant, his hands gripping at her with deceptive languor. Her face betrayed little other than mild surprise as lips brushed over hers and she was set aside and he was called forth.

Obeying, he walked out of his hiding spot, forcing himself to approach slowly. Alequo stepped aside, for whatever reason pleased to watch the byplay. Startlingly enough she looked up at him, meeting his gaze with her own bold eyes. A storm brew within her gaze but he spoke softly as she curtsied to him, inconsequential words, to which she replied in a like manner. He had so many questions, but refrained from putting them into words. Instead, Rhaegar allowed her to make further introductions, some names he’d heard of.

Ser Oswell Whent had a light grin to share with the hall, eyes upon the young woman. He listened to her voice, the slight tremble which faded as she spoke. He enjoyed, to some degree, the assurance that she too was human, that she saw some cause to be affected even as he was.

All too soon it was over and their host intervened, extending an invitation to all those present, one which one might not refuse. His bride’s brother hesitated a moment, looking between his sister and her companion. He gave the latter his arm. He gave Lyanna the support of his, the weight of her small hand amplifying the tension in his muscles.

But there was no time for vagaries. Together they walked to the long table, seated as guests of honour as the King declared himself very pleased indeed to host celebrations. To his relief, Rhaegar caught no sight of Marra even after his sensed calmed enough for him to actively search her out. The other woman at his side remained quiet, observing the gathering from behind a placid, almost unresponsive mien.

He could not ask after her thoughts, not with many a man or maiden approaching, wishing them well in either High Valyrian or its corrupted form. Lyanna answered always in High Valyrian, an abbreviated smile curling her lips every now and again. He wondered what she looked like when she truly smiled.

At long last it seemed the last of the courtiers had been satisfied by his gawking and they settled to eating. In spite of what must have been frazzled nerves, she found little problem in eating her fill. Rhaegar followed suit, wondering how to best approach her. It was then that he glanced at her discreetly, only to find that she stared at him quite unabashedly. Thus he turned to face her fully.

“You look like your sire.” He stopped short, fork resting against the edge of his trencher. There wasn’t precisely surprise in her voice, nor awe. It was a statement, one which he was not quite sure how to take in the absence of more specific qualifiers. Her eyes glinted with some unknown emotion. He couldn’t recall his sire’s face.

Rather bluntly, he applied to her with the truth for further clarification. “The only memory I have of my sire concerns steadying hands.” She blinked. One gently curling tendril of hair fell against a pale cheek. Lips parted gently. She kept her own counsel for a few moments, making him wonder whether she meant to satisfy his curiosity. In the end she did. 

“That is a good memory to have.” The comment was softly spoken, marked by understanding as something in her answered to the emotions roiling beneath the surface of his veneer. She returned her attention to the food and he left her to it, glancing about.

Arthur was whispering something to his sister. Rhaegar had not paid the girl much mind, content to watch Lyanna. But since he could not yet give his wife undivided attention, he surveyed the brother and sister. Head bowed in his direction, Lady Ashara was nodding to whatever it was her brother said, eyes wide. They were soulful eyes, he noted, wondering if someone had put the melancholy there or if it was simply her nature.

Gaze shifting, he looked to the Kingsguard his father had sent along with the Northerner lady. Ser Whent appeared to be taking his duty most seriously, in spite of the faint amusement ever-present upon his mien. Rhaegar rather suspected it was the volatile situation that appealed to him by the way the man’s attention glided about the hall.

Alequo kept development from happening. As master of his own realm, he was utterly within his right, but as the sun vanished, evening waning into night, Rhaegar felt his own patience, threadbare, strain. At his side, Lady Lyanna shifted in her seat, as though aware of his mood. “Your Grace, may we not depart?” Clearly, she’d had enough as well.

“The host is supposed to lead the newlyweds to the bedchamber,” he whispered back. He took it from her face that customs were different in the kingdoms. “We are,” he continued, “entirely at his mercy.” Not a comfortable position.

It seemed the merchant King was trying to see how far he could push. He kept them all a while more before Rhaegar noted Marra’s brother approaching. They spoke, one amused, the other curious. Whatever it was Alequo had been told, it proved enough to have him encourage the guests to further drink, putting away his cup.

Rhaegar held his hand out to his lady, silently wondering if the fine trembling in her fingers as she placed her hand into his was fear or something else. Turning his thoughts away from the matter, he followed Alequo’s lead to whistles and cheers. Her hand was warm in his, still trembling lightly. He did not wish to speak within hearing range, but promised himself he would do his best to soothe her fears as soon as they were afforded some privacy.

It was to his own chambers that they were taken. Rhaegar breathed out in relief, shrugging at the look Lyanna gave him. They were left to their own devices after a pointed jest or two from the merchant, but at the very least it was alone that they were at long last.

Additional trunks lined against the southern wall, without doubt carrying the woman’s possessions. Rhaegar watched her with rapt attention, indulging to his heart’s content, safe in the knowledge that he might do so without engendering speculation. Lyanna looked about the chamber with mild interest. Her gaze avoided the bed, but other than that there was little detail she did not take it. After a time, her gaze met his and she held up her hands, palms heavenwards. “Do you approve then?” he questioned, wondering at the conclusions of her perusal.

Warily, she nodded. The slow movement of her head was in concert with the fall of her hands, her question unanswered. She would have to voice it if she wished him to acknowledge it. The girl bit her lip, eyeing him with uncertainty. “Why are you not approaching?”

“You wish that of me?” He almost expected her to shake her head, instead she snorted, purpose hardening her stare sufficiently that for the first time he glimpsed something sharp and unyielding beneath the soft covering.

“I am a novice, I daresay I know not what it is I wish.” A smile tugged. He did step towards her then, assessing her garments. She did not shrink from his touch, nor did she indicate any displeasure. Hooking his fingers against the girdle cinched at her waist he encouraged the distance between them to lessen. 

A late assurance came. “You will learn in time.” The girdle fell to the ground. “Meantime, we ought to ready you for bed.” Her fingers were already busy with tugging on laces. Rhaegar let her set her pace and moved away. He did not look at her as she went about disrobing, although he acknowledged to himself that he was tempted. Instead, he set about his own preparations.

Faint rustling from somewhere behind him beckoned. He refused its call even when he finished before her. Luckily he faced the window and had the distraction of the outside world act as excuse. A soft cough caught his attention. “I am ready.” He much doubted that but turned around as he’d wished to do and found his bride sitting upon the bed.  

Her legs dangled over the edge, naked feet peeking from beneath the slightly raised hem of her sleeping garment. The same curl which had before fallen into her face had been brushed behind her ear but was making a swift return. And the rest of her was immobile, might be with fright, might be with something else.

Rhaegar sat down by her, keeping his gaze upon her face. “You must be tired, lady. Best you rest now.” Surprise bloomed to life. He offered a soft smile. “No one shall disturb you.” Her mien devolved into a frown.

“For what purpose would you wait?” she asked, voice coming out sharp. The sound slammed against him, loud in the relative quiet of the chamber. A hand settled on his shoulder, the touch bold, if not precisely firm.

He frowned back at her. “It would allow us a better understanding of one another.” Clearly the explanation was unsatisfactory by the way the girl’s eyes narrowed.  “We are strangers to each other, after all.” At that fingers dug into his flesh, as though to keep him still. Given she was the one moving, he saw no reason to.

“Be that as it may, I know my duty and would fain see to it,” she countered. Rhaegar supposed there was no reason for which he should insist upon gallantry at that point. He’d given her a choice and she seemed bent on seeing her duty through.

“If you are certain.” He could not help but allow her yet another chance. If she frowned, showed any sign on uncertainty, he’d leave her be for the night.

But his lady wife nodded to him vigorously, moving her hand away from his shoulder. She blinked up at him, the frown easing into a neutral expression. Something in her manner spoke of relief. “Could you see to the candles, Your Grace?”

He did precisely that, moving about the chamber in order to put them out. The rustling of covers let him know what she was about. It settled him somewhat that she was shy in equal measure to her earlier boldness. His task done, he turned back towards the bed, not needing the aid of flickering flames to reach it. The mattress dipped beneath his added weight as he moved the covers aside to gain easier access when he slid in.

Settling by her side, Rhaegar searched her out, noting she tensed and shivered at the touch. But then she had been the one to insist they go through with the whole thing, thus he gently traced his hand along the length of her hip. Her hand fell atop his, stopping him short. He waited for words, and was not disappointed. “I am glad you understand.” Her hand retreated.

He did not, in truth, understand. But he was willing to go along with it. His hands continued to move about her form. Her stiffness slowly ebbed away, leaving behind a sort of confused acceptance. She’d twisted and wiggled at the beginning, apparently uncomfortable, until the futility of the exercise seemed to reach her and she relaxed against him.  

Considering how to best go about it took him a few moments. But in the end he settled for leading the first foray, if only to learn a bit more. She accepted his manoeuvring, her arms locking around his shoulders in an attempt to keep herself balanced, he presumed. In spite of that show of trust, she tensed once more as he better aligned them. Rhaegar found himself stroking gently and murmuring soothing nonsense to her, hoping it would be enough. It proved to be the correct decision. Not willing to give her time for suspicion to take root once more, he pressed into her, very much surprised at the yelp which greeted him.

It was not surprise, nor acceptance, but pain. She wound tightly about him, clenching with rigidity. In spite of his instincts urging for movement, he kept himself still, carefully leaning in. To her credit, she did not protest even for a moment, but allowed the slide of her lips against hers, seemingly content to let her attention wander away from the sting and onto what his hands and mouth were doing. Rhaegar continued to distract her until he was fairly certain she’d relaxed enough that moving would not cause her undue ache.

A gasp, softer than her sound of pain, laced with surprise, met his movement. One of her hands climbed higher pressing at the base of his neck, fingers stroking against tense muscles. He did not try to prolong the exercise, certain it would not do her much good if he did. She continued to caress gently against the back of his neck throughout, her touch surprising in its constancy. As though he’d not caused her pain.

It took a few moments to find his bearing after the fact and drawing away from her proved an unanticipated hurdle as his body was quite content with the warmth between them. Nevertheless, he tugged away to the tune of a light sigh. He pulled the girl into his arms, settling them both beneath the covers. She pressed into him, appearing to carry not even the faintest hint of anger at the earlier hurt she’d suffered. Hot, slightly moist breaths fanned against his skin and one of her arms draped over his waist.      

“Are you well?” It was a foolish question. But her peculiar behaviour would not leave him be. And he had to know. “Does it pain you?”

“It did. For a moment. But I am well.” It would have been a good deal smarter to prepare her with greater care. In any event, she did not seem to know any better and thus he could but assure himself he’d take proper action in the future.

Blindly searching for the top of her head, he settled his hand to the back of her fine curls, stroking against the bound hair.   

Sleep was easily found for once. The warm weight at his side shifted from time to time throughout the night, but every time he came to and looked down at her, he found her sleeping soundly. And in the end, he himself had no more energy and was forced to sleep, without waking until well into the morning, to the sound of creaking boards. At first his mind refused to comprehend the sounds, thinking it might be the remnant of some dream, but the more he listened, the more the fog retreated, giving the creaking a different flavour altogether.

In spite of being wide awake within moments, Rhaegar did not open his eyes. He instead worked on reaching the knife wedged between the headboard and the mattress. His fingers curled around the handle, lifting. He opened his eyes a fraction, enough to catch a glimpse of a shadow in the doorway. Eyes opening fully, he glowered at the uninvited guest, letting go of the weapon.

But the man only chuckled, clearly not intimidated. To his grief, Rhaegar promised himself, he would soon be. Rising on one elbow, he considered reaching for the knife a second time. But his movement must have jostled Lyanna, who yawned against him and set to murmuring about something he could not catch. Quick in her own right, one look at him was enough for her to grow tense.

Without a single word, she sat up, head snapping towards the entrance. He followed suit, curious as to her intentions. “Is there such a custom which dictates we be disturbed form our sleep?” she addressed him, that Rhaegar knew, in spite of the fact she did not look away from the grinning Dornishman.

“Now, now; I was simply curious to see the girl.” The excuse was likely enough, given Oberyn had been nowhere to be seen at the feast.

“And I am anxious to see you gone.” He did not miss the paper deposited on the table near the door as Oberyn made his departure. The door closed in his wake and he heard something like the scraping of metal against metal.

He settled back against the pillows, pulling Lyanna along. Her head pressed against his shoulder, hand moving impatiently. “Are you not going to retrieve the message?”

“Later.” She sucked in a breath, apparently in the mood to argue the matter. He pressed his lips to hers in a bid to silence. They parted shortly. “It is early yet.”

She glanced at one of the windows. “So it is.” In the faint light he could make out her wince. She kept silent, her eyes not straying for their path. It took him a moment to understand she was contemplating some matter only known by her.

He left her to it, content to turn his thoughts to the message Oberyn had brought. Given its carrier he could well tell the source and to think she would so brazenly disregard the occasion brought a twinge of annoyance. No matter, he would simply discard of it when the time was appropriate. Fingers brushed against his chest of a sudden, and he could not help his eyes falling to the perpetrator. Lyanna’s eyes had closed, but she was awake; her breathing was a measured regular thing, too much so to be left to chance. And she hadn’t paused in her ministrations.

“Can you not sleep?” he asked after a space. She ought to be tired enough.

“It is strange to lie abed with a man,” she answered and he, knowing what he knew of her, could well believe it. A more daring man would have pressed for further qualifiers to set before the experience. He merely drew her closer still. And she rewarded that with words, as though sensing his need. “You are,” a small pause intervened as she likely considered her words, “not quite as I expected you to be.”

“Never you say.” Having not set his expectations regarding her, he’d received Lyanna with neither pleasure nor disappointment. Set against some paragon, he was certain she would pale in time. And a paragon, much as he admired such, would be of no use to him. A soft, tremulous sigh indicated her reticence to open up any further. “I think we shall rub along tolerably well.”

“And I am of a mind to agree.” She opened her eyes and lifted her head, bringing herself level with him. For some reason, she stared at him intently. Rhaegar delved no deeper than that, knowing it was all yet too new, too fragile to test. He’d bide his time and in the end would be the winner for it. Seemingly finding what it was she’d been searching for, she made for his lips, a gentle, artless kiss which he dared not pursue.

“There,” she declared after, “to seal the bargain.”  He realised, not without some apprehension, that she was trying to please him and naturally she would, as he was now much in command of her fate. He did not know if he wished to have such a claim on another soul, but wishes aside, she’d been placed in his hands and wisely enough, was attempting to work upon foundations. Her head returned to its perch on his shoulder, her chest against his side. His thoughts drifted.

“Your Grace?” her voice called him back. He murmured, indicating his willingness to be engaged. “Is it possible to make certain no one else disturbs us?”

“Oberyn shall be very distraught, indeed, to hear himself spoken of in such terms.” He wasn’t displeased, though. Recognition flashed upon the girl’s face, along with something harder, almost condemnatory.

“That is just as well. Disappointment will keep him away.” Chuckling at the spark of temper and the glimmer he saw in her eyes, Rhaegar considered himself very fortunate indeed.

He continued to hold his wife, allowing the comfort to suffuse him. He would have to look upon Marrra’s words soon enough. And then he would have a better understanding of how they were to go on.     

 

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Now, all I have to do is come up with a plot for this story. I'm sure I'll find something, but in the meantime, I hope you enjoyed yourselves.


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